by Ann Tatlock
He lay down on top of the bedspread without bothering to change out of his clothes. He was tired, but he wasn’t sure he could sleep. He tucked his hands under his head and stared up at the ceiling.
He’d had wandering eyes, and he knew it. A pretty face could still turn his head, though he’d seen few enough of those in the past five years. But he liked to think that what he had been looking for in his wanderings was more than skin deep, was something that would somehow satisfy not desire but longing. The endless drumbeat of wanting to know and be known.
That longing had colored his every decision and influenced his every action before he went to prison. Oddly, and unexpectedly, that same longing had been fulfilled behind the walls and barbed wire of the state penitentiary. He was a different man now, and he hoped to live a different kind of life. That was what he needed to tell Andrea, but he realized abruptly that something had been nagging at him for a long time. Fear. He was afraid to tell Andrea what had happened to him in prison. That one time when she was visiting he’d gotten as far as saying he’d prayed the sinner’s prayer with the chaplain, but the look she gave him told him she was skeptical. “Well, I’m glad you found religion,” she’d said. And he wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like that at all, but something prevented him from speaking.
Maybe it was what he’d seen happen too many times. Some of the men who came to Christ in prison went around telling everyone, as if they’d suddenly been reborn into holyroller street-corner preachers compelled to share the Gospel with all the hell-bound passersby. That always made John feel a little sick. The only thing those men got in return was ridicule. Even when some of the believers shared their faith in quieter ways, their words were still mocked, sworn at, laughed over. He supposed you couldn’t expect much from a bunch of criminals, but still, John remembered that the world viewed Christians in much the same way the convicts did—as a bunch of intolerant, narrow-minded, self-righteous hypocrites.
John sniffed lightly. Yeah, he knew. He’d been of the same opinion once. That was before he looked far enough beyond the Christians to gaze directly on the face of Christ. Once he did that, he understood. Once he did that, he had something for the first time in his life that meant more to him than life itself.
There was another believer behind bars, a dark-skinned fellow named Sid. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, fists like basketballs, legs like telephone poles, and eyes like a child’s. John had never met a more tender soul anywhere.
They’d commiserated once over the mockery of their faith.
“You know,” Sid said, “you tell some people about Jesus, it’s just like casting your pearls before swine. Hard to see something so precious treated like garbage.”
John understood completely what Sid meant. Not that people like Andrea were swine, but still, it was hard to open your arms and pour out your treasure to people who might respond by labeling you a fool.
Rebekah, apparently repeating what she’d heard Andrea say, had called what happened to him a jailhouse conversion, one that would only last till he got out.
He would have to prove them wrong. But because he was afraid of casting out his pearls, he would, for the time being, have to do it quietly, without saying a word.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Billy watched as Phoebe broke through the surface of the lake, arms flapping, water splashing everywhere. As soon as she caught her breath, she laughed loudly.
“Watch me again, Billy!” she yelled.
She dog-paddled to the ladder and climbed up onto the sun-warmed dock. Then, legs pumping, feet stomping out wet footprints on the wooden planks, she ran to the end of the dock and cannonballed into the lake.
Billy applauded when her head once again popped out of the water like a cork. “You made a really big splash that time,” he said. “You got me wet!” He was sunning in an inner tube several feet from the dock, using his hands as paddles to keep himself from drifting out too far.
Sundays were the best day of the week for Billy. His uncle always gave him Sundays off, even though the restaurant was open. That way Billy could go to church and afterward spend the rest of the day with the family. Mostly he palled around with Phoebe because Beka had to work, but that was all right. He and Phoebe had plenty to do—swimming, playing games, lying in the sun, fishing from the dock, taking the motorboat out with Mom. Billy was always happy to be with his little sister.
She swam to him and rested her arms on the inner tube. “What do you want me to do now, Billy?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You got goose bumps. Want to sit on the dock? Warm up some?”
“Okay.”
Billy rolled and belly flopped out of the inner tube. The two of them put their hands on the tube and kicked their way back to shore. There, Billy dragged the tube up toward the bank while Phoebe, shivering, ran off to wrap herself up in a beach towel.
In another moment Billy joined her at the end of the dock, where she sat with her legs dangling over the water. She had thrown the towel up over her head so that only her eyes peered out at Billy.
“You look like Mary in the Christmas pageant with the towel like that.”
“I don’t want him to see me,” she answered quietly.
“Who?”
She motioned with her eyes toward the porch. Billy looked over his shoulder and saw their dad in one of the wicker chairs reading the Sunday paper.
He turned back to Phoebe. “You mean Dad?”
She nodded.
“That’s silly, Phoeb. You don’t have to hide from Dad.”
“He’s always watching me.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yeah he is.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yes he is, Billy.”
“Well, okay. Maybe he is. Because he wants to know you.”
Phoebe didn’t answer.
“You’ll like him someday,” Billy said. “Wait and see.” She looked as if she didn’t believe him, but she let the towel drop to the dock and leaned her head against Billy’s arm. “Sing me a song, Billy.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t care. Any one.”
“All right.” He thought a moment, coughed, and cleared his throat. Then he started to sing.
“Jesus is love.
He shows us the way.
He’s always watching over us,
Both night and day . . .”
Billy was kind of proud of this one; he’d written it himself. The tune was a bit different every time he sang it, and sometimes he even changed the words around, but it didn’t matter to him, and it didn’t seem to matter to Phoebe either.
“Jesus is peace.
He takes away my fear.
When I am afraid,
I know He is near.”
His little sister linked her arm through his and shut her eyes. That, and the sun, made Billy feel warm all over.
“Jesus is life.
So when my days are done,
I know He’ll come for me,
And take me home.”
As he sang, he didn’t notice the dock quivering beneath the weight of his father’s footfalls. He looked up in surprise when he heard his father ask, “What are you singing, Billy?”
“Oh, hi, Dad.” Billy smiled. “It’s just a song I made up.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Have a seat.”
Billy patted the dock beside him. He couldn’t help noticing that when his father sat down, his feet actually reached the water. Billy watched the long, narrow toes sink beneath the surface, watched as hungry minnows gathered around and then, disappointed, flickered off again.
“Have a nice swim?” his dad asked.
“Yeah, Dad, the water’s great. You want to come in?”
“Not right now. Some other time, though.”
“Maybe we can go fishing sometime too. Take the motorboat out somewhere.”
“Yeah, sure. You got rods?”
“Three of them. One for me,
one for you, and one for whoever else wants to come.”
“That works.”
“You want to come with us, Phoeb?” Billy asked. “We’ll let you hook the worms.”
Phoebe made a face and shook her head. Billy laughed. “She doesn’t like to touch the worms.”
“Well, I don’t blame her. They’re kind of slimy, aren’t they?”
Phoebe glanced at her dad, at Billy, at the water. The three sat silently a moment. Then Billy chuckled.
“What’s funny, son?” his dad asked.
“Nothing, Dad. I’m just happy. I mean, you, me, and Phoebe all sitting right here together on the dock. I can’t think of anything better than that.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Billy.”
“Can you, Dad? Can you think of anything better?”
“No, I guess I can’t.” He leaned forward and tried to catch Phoebe’s gaze. “What do you think, Phoebe?”
Billy felt the child shrug, felt her cling more tightly to his arm. He answered for her, “She thinks she likes it too.” He felt a small pinch on the inside of his arm, but he ignored it. “I’m teaching Phoebe how to swim, Dad,” he said proudly.
“Yeah? Well, I’m glad you are, Billy. I saw your medals on the windowsill. I’d forgotten how good you are in the water.”
“I like to swim. Coach said I’m like a fish.”
“I know you are. You going to do any more racing at the Special Olympics?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should if you have the chance.”
“I don’t know, Dad. It was fun when I was a kid, but I got grown-up things to worry about now.”
“You do? Like what?”
“Uncle Owen’s going to teach me everything I need to know about owning a restaurant.”
“He is? You going to buy the restaurant from him?”
“Maybe someday. I like the work.”
“I know you do, Billy.”
“And I got to make a living somehow.”
“Yeah. We’ll talk about that. We’ll get it all figured out.”
“I can do it, Dad.”
Silence. Then, “I don’t doubt that, son.” Dad leaned forward again, looking past Billy to Phoebe. “Phoebe, I think you need a nap.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No I don’t.”
“You look like you’re falling asleep.”
“No I’m not.”
“You know, you might sleep better at night if you didn’t sleep on the floor in Billy’s room.”
“I like the floor.”
“I’m just suggesting you might be more comfortable in your own bed.”
She narrowed her eyes, pulled her mouth into a taut line.
Billy said, “She doesn’t like it in with Beka.”
“So I’ve been told. What’s the matter, Phoebe?”
When she didn’t answer, Billy said, “It’s all right, Phoeb. You can tell us.”
She was quiet another moment before saying, “Beka has scary things.”
“What kind of scary things?” Dad asked.
Phoebe looked at Billy. He nodded at her to go on. “She has candles and things.”
“Candles? Oh, are you afraid she’ll set the room on fire?”
Phoebe shook her head.
Dad prodded, “What is it, then?”
When Phoebe didn’t answer, Billy patted her hand. “You can tell us, Phoeb,” he said. “We’re here to take care of you.”
Finally she said, “She has books with scary pictures in them.”
“What kind of scary pictures?” Dad asked.
Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know.”
A motorboat sped by close to the end of the dock, cutting a wake in the water. Billy watched as the series of small waves rolled to shore.
His father leaned forward again to look at Phoebe. “Do you know what the books are?”
“No,” Phoebe whispered. To Billy’s surprise, she added, “She uses them when she casts her spells.”
Billy had to think about that for a minute. Suddenly, he laughed. “You mean, like Beka is a witch or something?”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him, and Billy stopped laughing.
“What makes you think she’s casting spells, Phoebe?” Dad asked.
“Well, once she got mad at me and said she was going to put a spell on me if I didn’t go away and leave her alone.”
“She did?” Dad looked at Billy. “Is that what kids are into these days, Billy?”
“Not me, Dad.” Billy shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. Maybe she thinks she’s Harry Potter or something. She and her friends were crazy about all those movies.”
“Oh yeah,” Dad said. He nodded and then smiled at Phoebe. “Listen, honey, it’s just pretend. Beka can’t really put a spell on you. All that stuff in the movies—that’s just pretend too. You know that, don’t you?”
Phoebe looked out over the lake. She didn’t answer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The moon wasn’t anywhere near full, and today wasn’t the right day of the week for this kind of thing, but Rebekah decided to go ahead and do it anyway. It couldn’t hurt. She could do it now and do it again later. After all, as Lena had explained, that was what was so wonderful about all of this; you were free to do whatever you wanted, however you wanted to do it. Rebekah had the power within herself to make things happen; she had only to find the right way to unleash that power. At least that’s what Lena said.
Glad that Phoebe had already made her nightly trek to Billy’s room, Rebekah pulled back the double doors of her closet to reveal her sacred space. That was where she kept the wooden crate she used as an altar, her candles and incense, her herbs and oils—all the tools of the Craft that she’d been collecting over the past months. The crate lay on its side with the open end facing out so that she could use the crate itself as a sort of cubby for her belongings. She also had a small collection of magic books given to her by Lena and Lena’s aunt Jo, who knew just about everything there was to know about the Craft. Rebekah’s most important book, of course, was her Book of Shadows, a spiral notebook in which she recorded her thoughts, her feelings, and her own made-up spells.
She glanced at the luminous face of the clock on the nightstand beside the bed. Just past midnight. At least it was a good time, she thought, to call on the elements to make her more beautiful. She had to be beautiful for David because she didn’t want to lose him. The thought of being without him terrified her, but she tried to push it away. She didn’t want to be pulling down any negative thoughts when she should be envisioning only good things. If she did this right, she could bend even the universe to her will. She wanted badly to believe that. She needed badly to believe it. She reminded herself that some months ago she had cast a spell, asking the universe to send her love, and right after that David had shown up. That had to be more than coincidence.
Rebekah lit two candles on the altar—both red, the color of love. Around the base of the candles she sprinkled cinnamon, ginger, marjoram, and thyme, all of which were an aid in love, and all of which she had conveniently found in her mother’s spice rack.
For just a moment she hesitated. Maybe she should wait for the full moon after all. But no, that was two, maybe three, weeks off, and she couldn’t wait that long. She had to do something now. David was sure to find out the truth about her father, and that might change his mind about her. On top of that, she had seen him tonight talking with Jessica Faulkner while he collected tickets at the Ferris wheel. They had talked a little too long and had laughed a little too much, as far as Rebekah was concerned.
When Rebekah and David met at closing time, she asked him what he and Jessica had been talking about. David had shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Nothing much. Why?”
“No reason. Just looked like you were having fun.”
“Not jealous, are you?”
“No.” Yes. She was jealous and afraid, but she wouldn’t let on.
“Want to mee
t tonight?”
“I’ve got to lie low for a while.”
“How come?”
“My dad’s back, remember? It’s harder now to sneak out and back in without getting caught.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He’d obviously been irritated.
“Soon, though, David. We’ll meet soon. I promise.” Because if she couldn’t spend time with him, he’d find someone who could.
On the floor in front of her she dumped the contents of a plastic bag. These were the items she would need for the ritual: her makeup, soap, shampoo, lotions, several pieces of jewelry, a hand mirror, and a mister filled with holy water consecrated beneath a full moon. Carefully she placed each of the items on the crate that served as her altar.
She stood then to cast her circle. “You can never forget to cast your circle,” Lena had warned, “or you leave yourself open to negative energy.”
Moving clockwise, Rebekah defined her circle by placing stones on the floor to create a perimeter. Next she placed her elemental representations on the points depicting north, south, east, and west: a jar of dirt for earth, a feather for air, a tiger’s eye gemstone for fire, and a shell for water. As she did so, she pushed back a stray doubt about what she was doing, knowing that the doubt itself would work against her, interfering with what she wanted to accomplish. Once the elements were laid, she used a small broom to brush away any doubts and all negative thoughts; the circle was a sacred place and needed to be pure. To fill the space with positive energy, she opened a jar of salt water coated with rosemary and, dipping her fingers in the mixture, flicked the water around the circle’s edge.
When she finished, she paused a moment, unsure what to do next. She didn’t want to mess up. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she shut her eyes and pictured Lena. In her mind she heard again what her friend had told her so many times. “You can’t do anything wrong, you know. That’s the beauty of it. Anything you do is right. Just do what works for you.”